Me Before You
by Blue xo
Summary: "Clean it up Snow, that's what you're here for."- When Simon finds himself with a job as a carer, the last thing he expects is to have a stuck-up patient with a tongue far too sharp for his own good, and almost criminally good looks. Most of all, he never expected the decisions he'd have to make along the way that would effect him in more ways than he could ever have imagined. AU
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there.**

 **So, I have been debating for a while whether or not to write and publish this. The main factor that put me off publishing this was the fear of starting to write a fic only to grow tired and bored of it after a few chapters, and not know where to go with it. But, since I took time to plan this out and since I'm basing this off a film, I'm happy to say that I'm certain this won't happen.**

 **And, to be honest, I'm excited to work on it!**

 **This fanfic is based off the fabulous film, Me Before You (go look it up if you want). I considered changing the title to something of my own, but I feel like this title contains so much meaning behind it. And if you find you don't quite understand it because you have not watched the film, you will as this fic progresses. Therefore I have decided to keep it, but I take no credit for it.**

 **I won't blabber on anymore, so I'll leave you, reader, to enjoy this first chapter of what I hope will be a successful fic. Until the next update!**

 **Disclaimer; Carry On and Me Before You do not belong to me.**

* * *

 ** _..._**

 _ _A perfect life.__

 _ _That was what he had.__

 _ _To wake in a king-sized bed, white sheets strewn around him and a soft glow of pale light streaming through his much too large windows, beside a boy his heart swelled for. To wake looking forward to getting up and starting the day, to look forward to actually going to work. And then, when the day was over, to come back to his love once more.__

 _ _His time with him after dinner was spent either two ways; cuddled on the ivory couch, watching television in contentment, or, under those white sheets of their bed and not to reappear until several hours later.__

 _ _A perfect life.__

 _ _He awoke that morning, greeted by a caress of the soft lips of his love who lay beside him.__

 _"_ _ _Stay, Baz."__

 _"_ _ _I can't, you know I have to get up."__

 _"_ _ _...Please?"__

 _ _He rolled onto his side, lips stretched upwards in a grin as he peered down at the green eyed boy. "It's a half day for everyone at Pitch Industries, including me." He reached down, pressing a long kiss against plump lips. Pulling away, he found green eyes blinking back up at him, hopefully. "So, you'll be back early?"__

 _"_ _ _I will."__

 _ _A perfect life.__

 _ _Suit on, one that complimented his tall stature and warm olive complexion, hair combed carelessly back with one hand, he left their deluxe apartment and stepped outside, greeted with pouring rain.__

 _ _He considered going back for an umbrella, but he was running late already and traffic was sure to be heavy. He had standards to keep up, and walking late into his own business was not a standard he would let stain his name.__

 _ _A phone call. With a glance to the expensive screen, bright grey eyes squinting, he found it to be important, and so answered it. He could multitask without effort; maneuvering his way through the busy streets of London, whilst talking calmly on the phone through the downpour and searching for a cab was no problem.__

 _ _Or so he thought.__

 _ _A free taxi, waiting patiently on the other side of the street. He crossed, triumph in his step and satisfaction laced through his features, only a semi-wet suit to show for his troubles.__

 _ _Maybe he should have stayed in the apartment.__

 _ _Maybe he should have rolled around in the sheets with his pretty boy for a few minutes longer.__

 _ _Maybe he should have went back for that umbrella.__

 _ _Maybe he should've stopped, and bloody__ looked.

 _ _These were the thoughts that raced through his mind as the sound of a deafening horn blew in his ears, pain engulfed every one of his senses and the world went black.__

 _ _A ruined life.__

* * *

 ** _ _ **Simon**__**

"So, um, I need a job."

I should've worn a different scarf today. Or no scarf at all. The one I'm wearing now just happens to be the itchiest one I could've worn. And it's not even nice.

I blame Penny for making me wear it; she insisted that the weather today was to be awful, and I suppose she was right about that. Hard frost lined the tops of bushes and the sides of footpaths this morning when I left our apartment. I should've ignored her when it came to wearing the damned scarf though.

I shouldn't listen to Penny sometimes. Though I suppose she was only looking out for me.

The job seeker looks at me dubiously through squinted eyes and half moon glasses. She looks like a proper stereotypical office worker; one that wears high collared, crisp, white shirts, ancient looking black pencil skirts and hair pulled back way too tightly in a bun.

She pushes her glasses up her nose delicately, bony fingers darting over the keyboard. "Looking for a job, or want a job?" she asks, her voice surprisingly deep. I swallow, confused with her question.

"Eh, both I suppose?" I titter nervously. Out of reflex I rub the back of my neck (sheepishly, as Penny does say), and upon realising my habit, I yank my hand down and my fingers whack against the dark oak of the pristine table. I smile tightly through the sharp pain in my finger tips as the old lady raises a greying brow, unimpressed.

A few taps on her keyboard later and she addresses me again. "You last worked… where?"

"'Scones n' Stuff'. That cafe just down the street. Ran out of business" I say carefully. She batters away at the keyboard some more before squinting. She then turns the screen around to face me, but only a little, so I have to crane my neck to see clearly.

"Judging from the skills required for your last job, this should be quite fitting for you." She points with an ancient finger at her screen, tracing under some text in bold.

"'Carer, preferably young and flexible around the clock, needed for a disabled gentleman. Days; Monday to Sunday, from 9am till 7pm'", she reads, watery grey eyes glancing at me. I gulp, put off by the long work hours and lack of days off.

She raises her brow again. It's in desperate need of a plucking. "You did state earlier that you have experience as a care worker?" she inquires. I nod.

"And the pay?" I ask, fiddling with the edge of my scarf. Give me any job, but in the end, it's the pay I'm after.

"Reasonable- __very__ reasonable. Twenty pounds an hour. Total of two-hundred pounds a day" she glances at me, expectantly.

"I'll take it."

 ** **XxX****

 **"** A carer?"

I sigh as I lather a slab of butter on my scone, fresh from Tescos (since the decline of Scones n' Stuff, Tescos will have to do).

"Yep" I confirm, "With really good pay."

Penny stands with her hands on her broad hips, squinting down at the contract papers strewn over our kitchen table. "How much an hour again?" she asks without looking up, and I'm glad she doesn't. Her chocolaty gaze is intense, and it makes me uncomfortable during times when I'm uncertain of myself and my decisions. Such as now.

Penelope Bunce, a short girl with a big heart, brain and attitude, is my best friend. I've known her since, I don't know, forever I suppose at this stage. Her parents have always acted as my own, since I never knew my real ones. When we weren't boarding at school, I stayed with her and her family; my years spent and memories made with them I will cherish forever.

Now that we've finished second level education, and we both are at the ripe age of twenty and twenty-one, Penny has gone on to college (which I will forever be pleased about. For Penny to not use her incredibly smart brain would be a bigger waste than throwing a fresh cherry scone in the bin), and I remain undecided with my college choices.

Though, and I will never tell her because I know she'd object, I'd much prefer to work and show my gratitude for her family's hospitality for me by for once providing for both of us, than to be too fussed with college.

And with this job, I certainly can.

"Twenty an hour, total of two hundred a day" I say, taking a deep bite of my scone. I relish the taste of the melted butter on my tongue.

Penny finally looks at me, peering over her cat-like rimmed glasses. I don't know why she wears them, and I tell her they look witchy. She says that's the aim. "This is a fully grown person we're talking about Simon. That's a lot of responsibility" she says, one dark brow dipping in concern. "Are you sure you're up for it?"

I swallow deeply, and then give her a wide smile, knowing full well that there's bits of scone stuck on my teeth, and it's grossing her out. "Relax Penny. With these arms, powered by the sacred power of cherry scones, I can take on anything" I flex my admittedly muscle-lacking biceps for good measure.

"Tesco scones, Simon."

"So? I don't discriminate."

I stand from my chair, dusting the sweet crumbs from my hands, and walk around the table to Penny. I throw an arm around her shoulder and pull her close, whilst keeping my eyes trained on the contract sheets strewn on the table.

"It'll be fine Penny, you'll see. After a few weeks, we'll have more than enough money to get that new sofa you're always on about."

"When you put it like that…"

* * *

 **…**

 _ _Let me die.__


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi there,**

 **So, I meant to have this chapter up ages ago, like around the start of February, but life was _good_ to me and I never got round to posting it. Also, it was hard to decide how to end this chapter, so that took me a while, and hence why it may seem to dip slightly in quality.**

 **A big thank you to the first follows and faves and reviews, they are very much appreciated. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the long wait.**

 **I'll explain this chapter in another A/N at the end of this chapter, but for now, enjoy!**

* * *

"Now I know it's not how you like to dress…"

I hold back a scoff, frowning heavily at the shorter girl in the mirror's reflection. "It's not how anyone likes to dress, Penny."

After making sure I got out of bed on time this morning, via actually pulling me from the nest of blankets I was happily cocooned in (I slept through my alarm), and making sure I had a decent breakfast in me (scones, a fry, and scones again) Penelope set straight to the task of dressing me. I tried to explain to her that surely a carer wears quite casual, comfortable clothing, but she insisted otherwise.

What she pulled out of my admittedly small wardrobe was something I can't remember ever putting in it myself. And it's anything but comfortable.

I pull at the tie Penny expertly tied herself (much more quickly, I noticed sourly, than I could ever do on my own.) (Of course only if I decided to wear the blasted thing out of my own free will)

"I'm sorry but have you ever seen a carer walking around in a full suit? With a tie n' all?" I growl as I try to fluff up my hair she spent at least ten minutes trying to tame. Gel in my hair looks like what oil spilled on a lions mane would look like.

"No, not all carers, but do you even know who you're working for? Simon, these are the Pitch's your waltzing off to, not old Mary down the road." Penny explains, her voice rising two octaves higher than it needs to. She does this when she can't believe my obliviousness. Or just my lack of knowledge about something apparently important.

She spins me around to face her, making sure my collar is lying the right way. "Poor Mr. Pitch, his wife mustn't be able to take on all the responsibility of caring for him by herself." she finishes with a dusting to my shoulders. She places her hands on her broad hips with a sigh of satisfaction, a look in her eye that I can't really identify. Pride, I'd like to think.

"Any last bit of advice?" I ask through a nervous smile.

Penny lets out a hum of thought, then reaches up to pinch my cheek. "Don't accept any food that they give you."

I frown. "Why not?"

"Because you drool worse than a dog."

 **xXx**

When I discovered the name of the family I was to be working for, I'm not going to lie; I definitely had second thoughts. On my part it's my fault for not looking further into it the job, and well, yeah that's it.

The Pitch's are a wealthy family that run a massive company: Pitch Industries. They make musical instruments, all kinds; violins, cellos, guitars, trombones, pianos, the lot. The only instruments they do not make are electronic instruments and devices, like launch pads and electric guitars. Why, I don't know. My guess is that they simply prefer more classical instruments.

On my bus journey to the Pitch mansion (yup, a mansion) I begin to regret eating such a large breakfast. As much as I know how much better I work on a full stomach, the butterflies doing three-sixties in my stomach are starting to get to me, and a sharp queasiness is starting to come over me. Luckily, the journey from Penny and I's apartment to the mansion is short, and I can now see the surrounding outer high walls of the mansion coming into view.

I eventually get off the bus, straightening my collar and the cuffs of my sleeves as I step onto the pebbled ground. When I look up from my fumbling, I see a middle aged woman standing in the courtyard waiting for me, hands neatly folded in front of each other, her stance professional. I give her my best smile, hoping it doesn't show how nervous I am.

As I approach her, her eyes regard me coolly and a small smile graces her thin lips. Upon closer inspection, I decide that she's in her thirties, possibly forties, and she has an air of regal grace about her. Her dark brown hair is pulled pack into a neat bun, and her attire consists of a white blouse, a formal black pencil skirt and small heels. She gives off a vibe to me that I decide is relatively pleasant and not too intimidating at all.

For now.

She holds out an elegant hand, and I accept it, hoping she didn't notice the nervous shake in my own hand. "You must be Simon Snow" she says, her voice low and calm. "My name is Daphne Pitch. It's nice to make your acquaintance at last."

I nod earnestly. "Yes I am. A pleasure to meet you " I say as calmly and certainly as I can, hoping to come off as gathered and collected.

Her green eyes give a little twinkle, and immediately I decide that I like this woman. "Please, just call me Daphne. Now, if you would follow me please."

She turns on her small black heels and gestures for me to follow. I walk beside her, trying to decide if should walk with my hands in my pockets or by my sides. I decide on the latter.

The inside the mansion is huge, with everything themed wooden and rustic and red, but with a modern twist. Our footsteps echo on the wooden floor as she leads me into a large study room, with two long couches and a coffee table centered in the middle of the room on a thick red rug. Tall windows allow a generous amount of light into the room, and tall bookshelves line three surrounding walls. I decide that the room itself probably costs more that Penny and I's whole apartment.

Daphne gestures for me to sit, and as I do she takes a seat across from me on the opposite couch. The leather is cool, and it feels like sinking back into a giant marshmallow.

She crosses her legs, sitting delicately. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Snow?" she asks politely. Unsure of whether or not it would be rude to decline, I decide to accept.

"Yes please, I would. Oh and please, just call me Simon" I say.

Daphne nods and elegantly raises a hand. Suddenly an old maid walks into the room, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and two teacups on saucers. She places it on the coffee table in front of us and makes quick work of pouring the steaming hot contents of the pot into the expensive cups. Jasmine tea, I can tell from the soothing aroma.

Daphne nods her thanks to the maid. "Thank you, Vera". The maid, Vera, bows in courtesy and walks out of the room without a word, giving me a small wrinkled smile as she passes me.

"Now, onto business." I turn my attention back to the woman across me, and pick up my tea, taking a sip. I try not to cringe at the scalding temperature of it as it slips down my throat. Daphne daintily holds her cup expertly with two fingers, and I decide that mimicking the posh technique would only end up with me spilling the contents of my cup. "Tell me, Mr. Snow, what are your skills, what attracts you to this job, and why should I hire you?"

The questions shake me a little. Skills? Very little. What attracts me to this job? I can't just say the money, how rude and unprofessional would that be? I set my cup down, and nervously pull at the leg of my trousers.

"Well," I start, nervously meeting her calm eyes, "I haven't many skills to be honest. I can cook, clean and I'm good with people. I worked in a café before applying for this job, so interacting with other people is quite easy for me. And um… I can make a mean cup of tea?" I finish weakly, resisting the urge to scratch the back of my neck to stem my nerves. I settle for reaching for my cup again, taking a quick sip.

Daphne's face remains neutral, and I wait for it to slip into an unimpressed frown. Instead, she tilts her head a bit, her green eyes remaining cool and calm. "And why should I hire you?"

I hesitate, unsure of what answer to give her. After a few seconds of deliberating, I say, "I just really want to help people- I always have. Whether they just need a little bit of help or a lot. I- I just want to help. And in this case, I want to help your husband, Mr. Pitch."

She raises a dark brow, and I feel my stomach drop in disappointment as I assume my answer isn't good enough for her. But instead, before I can try and add on to my reasons, she says "That is good. Actually, I was hoping for an answer like that. However, I must inform you that it is not my husband that is in need of caring."

I blink in surprise. "Oh?" I say dumbly. Not her husband? Who else could it possibly be then?

Daphne stands from the couch, straightening her skirt once on her feet. "Follow me please, Simon." she says and sets off out the door. I stand up hurriedly and set off after her.

She leads me down a the long halls of the mansion until we reach a large set of cream double doors. She opens one and gestures for me to walk inside.

I comply, and am greeted with a large, pleasant, modern and hygienic four part room. On one side of the room is a kitchen, with a marble island and expensive cooking equipment, and on the other is a large dining table. The chairs that surround it, only four in total, are cream leather, much like the cream painted walls. There's a wide doorway into a bathroom, and from my position I can see that in it is a huge shower with a seat fitted against the wall, and other aiding equipment.

I realise that I am in a totally separate part of the mansion, one designed to equip only someone who cannot look after themselves. Daphne stands beside me and gestures around the room. "As you can see, we are very well equipped. I will show you where everything is later. But first I need you to confirm, you are aware that this job requires aid to someone with full loss of mobility, yes?"

In all honesty I wasn't really aware; I had never thought about to what extent of disability the person I was to look after had. But I nod my head anyway, the seriousness of this job settling on my shoulders. Because I want to help, and I need the money.

Daphne gives an appreciative nod of her head and walks forward to one more set of doors into the last part of the room, these ones being glazed sliding doors. She grips the handle and slides the door open.

The room revealed to me is a bedroom, again fully equipped, but with a personal touch. Obviously, from the one who occupied it.

A man is bent over someone in a wheelchair, and he looks up. He's young, but definitely older than me, possibly around the age of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, with brown eyes and hair and dressed in surgeon clothing. He doesn't look like he can pack much punch, but he smiles friendly when he sees me. "This is Niall," Daphne says, returning his smile politely, "He will be helping you as well as showing you the routines. And this…" she continues as the man, Niall, presses a button that makes the electronic chair turn around to face me.

And I'm stunned into oblivion when my eyes land upon the person occupying it;

A young man, around my age, with the darkest hair and palest, most striking grey eyes I've ever seen.

"... is my stepson, Basilton."

* * *

 **And there we go.**

 **Two things; One, my reasons for choosing Niall as Baz's medical caretaker are quite simple really; he didn't really come off as a bad fella in the book (I found Dev a bit sneery if I'm honest), and I kinda wanna give him a good run as one of the good guys, which he will be in this story. For those of you who saw the film/read the book of Me Before You, Niall is basically playing the same role Nathan.**

 **Second thing; for those of you who wanted to see a full introduction to Baz in this chapter, sorry you didn't. But you will for sure in the next chapter.**

 **I'll be clearing up any typos within the next 24. That's all for now, thanks for reading, all feedback is welcome, and I'll hopefully get the next chapter up quicker than this one.**

 **xo**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey there,**

 **Not much to say other than; this chapter is very, _very_ , overdue, so my apologies for that. Secondly, this chapter is quite short, and again apologies for that, but I wanted you readers to see into Baz's head first before I proceeded with Simon's P.O.V. so that you could understand his behaviour and how he will treat Simon in future chapters, hence the small 1,000 word or so introduction. **

**Lastly, I've written Baz to swear a lot. I know that some people do not like a lot of swearing included in a character's character, but I think for Baz, it enhances his bitterness. If it does, however, offend some of you readers, do let me know and I'll work around it.**

 **Addressing 'booksforever' in the reviews, and I suppose as a reminder to other readers, yes this is based of the plot from the book/film, 'Me Before You', which I did address previously.**

 **So I suppose without further adieu; a big thank you to those who have stuck around, enjoy reading and a very Happy New Year to you all.**

 **xo**

* * *

 **BAZ**

My mother has messed up massively. Goodness sake she had, what, one job? And more than enough ability, _mobility_ pardon fucking me, to do it.

Fuck sake I even gave in to accepting that Niall couldn't look after me on his own, not when he has so many other patients to tend to. Mother (Daphne that is, I only call her that to please father) has neither the time nor strength and energy to lift me – I shudder at even having to admit this- and my father is never here. Out doing things that I should be doing, that I _used_ to do.

I know that Father will never admit it, because if there's one good thing I suppose I can say about him, is that he loves me. Loves me more than fucking life itself. But he'll never admit to me, or to anyone, that he's disappointed. Not _in_ me, no, like I said before he loves me, but disappointed _about_ me. That I'm queer, for a start. Though we've crossed that bridge a long time ago and he's "dealt" with the fact that, to put it bluntly, I can't fuck with girls, I know that he still can't accept it, not really.

Doesn't matter now anyway, I suppose.

Which brings me to my second disappointing quality; I can't even walk. I'm paralysed. Ha fucking ha.

I twitch my mouth- the coarse beard that I've grown out since that day is quite impressive, but it's goddamn itchy. Haven't even got hands to scratch it. Such a _charmed_ life. Perhaps I can ask this mutt that my mother's hired to fucking scratch it for me.

Medium height, stocky yet skinny, with bronze hair that looks unkept yet flawless simultaneously, fidgety hands and trousers too short at the ankles- his suit is fucking _laughable_. Someone threw a jar of cinnamon at his face when he was a baby or something, because no one can have that many freckles scattered across their nose. Boring as fuck blue eyes, stubby-ass lashes and chapped lips.

He's fucking beautiful.

He grins, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. "H-hello, uh, I'm Simon Snow, nice ta meet you, Basilton." Chopped words, a typical, heavy and rough London accent.

Then he makes his first mistake; holding one freckly hand out, he proceeds to shake my own in greeting. My hands, both lying limp on the armrest of my chair. My hands, paralysed. Finally the gears in his miniscule brain (I'd love someone to get a microscope and examine it; I bet it's really fucking tiny) start turning and he realises his mistake and freezes.

He stammers and runs a hand (there's a mole on his little finger, how _cute)_ through his messy curls, attempting to play it off as his intention all along. There's a pregnant silence in the room, and I let him stew in it. Because I've no ability to control anything else in my life, may as well control this. (I know, I'm cruel).

Niall, however, finishes zipping up his medical bag and gives him a tight lipped smile (not because he's pissed or anything; his lips are just quite thin) and says, "Nice to meet you too Simon, looking forward to working with you", thus breaking the silence that I was beginning to enjoy.

The mutt stutters and grasps at the rope that Niall has thrown him. "You, uh, you too!", he just about manages to get out, nodding his head vigorously and bronze curls going every direction. He wears it up-to-date; close-shaved and short at the sides with curls piled on top. Typically boyish. I would think that he's of them boys that broke hearts with a smile- if he could get a word out properly and didn't stammer his way through a conversation, that is.

Mother clears her throat elegantly, and I wait a few seconds before giving her my attention. She raises a manicured brow at me, and encourages me with her eyes to say something. I don't want to. I most certainly do not fucking want to.

He's only here because of me.

He's only here because of the job and the no doubt amazing pay it offers.

He's only here because I'm bound to a chair. Bound to a life of spoon feeding, of lifting, turning, twisting, sighing, crying, dying.

Dying.

I'm not being dramatic. I died that day, when carelessness and lack of awareness was the only thing that directed me through London's busy streets. I died the moment I lost the abilty to raise my arms, tap my foot, turn my neck. Live.

Everyone tells me that I'm wrong; Mother, Father, Niall. Everyone being anyone who still has the abilty to wipe their own arse. Anyone still standing on two feet. But anyone standing on their own two feet can't possibly breathe them words laced with pity and tied with a bow of sorrow without knowing for themselves how it fucking feels. How it feels everyday when I wake up, wanting to stretch, reach across cool sheets to the body of the one that I love, to get up and put on my own clothes, make my own breakfast.

How now instead I wake up, and icy fear drowns me as I realise that I can't move, the bed is not slightly dipped and lacks one extra person, how I cannot slip my arms down the sleeves of cool white cotton shirts and do up the laces of my shoes, how now my lips are prodded with a cool metal spoon as I'm fucking spoon-fed.

I died that day. And everyday when I wake, up, I die all over again.

He's here. Because of me.

Call me selfish. Unfair. Cruel. I don't care

Because my life is anything but fair. So don't fucking mind me if I take out a _portion_ of my anger on this pretty boy here.

I lick my lips, raise a brow and curl my lips back into the cruellest sneer that I can muster, "How fucking marvelous to meet you, Simon Snow."

I watch as sweat clings to his brow, his face pales and floods with dread. As he realises what he's signed up for.

I. Don't. Care.


End file.
